


You've Got It All Wrong, John

by deduction019



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt John Watson, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, John Watson misunderstanding things, John is limping again, Kissing, Lots of Angst, M/M, Oh god, Pining, Post Reichenbach Return, Realizing Love, Sherlock being vulnerable, Sherlock is NOT a machine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deduction019/pseuds/deduction019
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from destroying Moriarty's web and gets a very... strange response from John, who is unnervingly sad when he sees the detective for the first time in three years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got It All Wrong, John

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



A punch.

A punch and then a hug and a request not to “ever, ever leave again” was what Sherlock got the night he came back. John had gotten home from work and the detective was sitting in his chair with his fingers steepled beneath his chin, looking up and cataloguing the reactions he would receive.

The man had changed. Bags under his eyes: hadn’t been sleeping well—for a while, now, obviously. Lip curled up: the man had just been coming home from work—he had been taking double shifts, then, very frequently. Shoes were scuffed and botched: no dates, not at all. At least a year, going by the dirt that had been caked on the back of them; this shocked Sherlock—John was always a man who liked to date girls, and since he had been gone for three years, John could have finally had a long-term relationship. There was less product in his hair, like he hadn’t really been trying to look his best. Once again, that set Sherlock at a disadvantage: he didn’t understand. John couldn’t have possibly _intentionally_ looked good to go out and catch criminals.

This all happened in the blink of a second. Sherlock glanced back up to John’s eyes, and the reaction was a series of steps, really.

The first was a blank stare. _Of course,_ Sherlock thought as he watched John’s eyes rake over his body. _He’s checking to see if I’m a hallucination._ He was tempted to raise one of his eyebrows, wondering why on Earth John was trying to do that. He didn’t though. If anything, the doctor deserved the time to be in shock.

In between the first and the second phases, Sherlock stood up and took a few steps towards the doctor, not knowing whether or not to approach him. He knew that this probably had a lot to do with emotion, so he kept his distance. He noted in the innermost room of his Mind Palace that John had his cane with him, which meant he was limping. That did something to him. The tightening in his chest was foreign, and he brushed it off as shock.

He wondered, once again, why on Earth John would _revert_ back to his limp. The shorter man had never been one for taking steps back. Perhaps since the two had a direct relationship, the change would be imminent.

He also wondered why Mycroft _failed_ to mention that little fact, when in fact he told his git of a brother to give him a full report on John’s well-being.

The second was a silent uttering of his name—a mixture of reverence and incredulousness. It was just his first name, whispered over and over again, the doctor trying to somehow get the name coursing back through his head. Sherlock was bemused by this also, wondering why John would have to repeat his name—he couldn’t have possibly forgotten it, and being close to believing that the lanky man was an allusion was far from reasonable. After his name, he began to whisper “I can’t believe that he…,” but wouldn’t finish the sentence. Sherlock became intrigued as to what the end of the sentence was, but didn’t push it. A look of pure hurt came over the doctor’s face as he looked at the detective, who was very obviously observing what his reactions were.  

The third, well, that stage was a tad blurry. He felt a searing pain in his jaw, and the floor suddenly rose up to him as he lost his balance and fell hard on his knees. _Well, at least_ that _didn’t change,_ Sherlock thought as he blinked and cupped his jaw with his hand. The strength of John’s punches were exactly the same as before—precision and a motive resulted in a strong handed punch, despite the fact that he still had his cane. Knowing it was well deserved, Sherlock didn’t think to send John a dirty look as he got up. Instead, he kept his face stoic and impassive as he got up, looking at John.

Now, all of these reactions had been textbook—Sherlock had expected them. The fourth stage, however, shocked him into stillness. John suddenly dropped the cane and flew into his arms, a wretched sob coming out of his body as his hands wrapped around to the detective’s back and fisted at the jacket he had picked up only thirty minutes before, from Mycroft’s office. “Don’t you ever, ever leave again,” he sniffled as he pressed his head into Sherlock’s chest.

Anything but violent contact was even rarer to Sherlock now, and it was a huge change from the hook that had resulted in his nose freely bleeding. Knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he should reciprocate in some way, shape or manner, he had unbuttoned the cuff of his button down shirt, and after holding it to his nose to staunch the bleeding, brought his other hand and placed it entirely too awkwardly on the doctor’s back, patting it to the comparison of how someone would pet a dog. It seemed as though John didn’t mind, as though he was more focused on the fact that he was _holding_ Sherlock in his hands.

It was all so confusing.

After about five minutes, the doctor pulled back and wordlessly walked over to the fireplace mantle, snagging a tissue from the box and handing it to Sherlock so that he could use something other than his shirt. In the end, the paper that, when moved, made dust fly everywhere and ultimately did more harm than good was useless, because the blood flow had stopped and the shirt was permanently ruined anyways.

He didn’t mention that to John, though.

After they had both pulled their coats off and hung them up, they sat down, much like they used to three years ago, across from each other.

“So,” John began, and his voice was a mixture of hollowness, anger, and hurt. Sherlock decided that he didn’t like the way that sounded. Not on John. “How did you do it, then?”

 _Frank as always, good old John_ , he thought. Perhaps it wasn’t just frankness, perhaps there was a bit of unsurprised irony in there too, like he wasn’t surprised that Sherlock would fake his death. Of course he was intelligent enough to. Everyone knew that.

What surprised Sherlock was that John didn’t ask _why._ He asked _how._  

“Rubber ball method, blood packet to the head, obviously,” he said, waving his hand and then looking at John, eyebrows furrowing. He was still in shock that John hadn’t asked _why._ He wasn’t planning on bringing anything up that John didn’t bring up, though.

“Obviously, yeah,” he murmured, and something about the way he said it made Sherlock’s chest twinge again. He figured that he just wouldn’t mention it, then. _Why._

“John…” he started, and at that precise point, John got up and promptly held a hand up to silence Sherlock. Silencing, he looked at the doctor, a slightly perplexed expression on his face.

“No,” he said, and limped over to his cane, picking it up with some difficulties. Sherlock chose not to shed any more light on that.

“I’m going to bed,” he muttered. “Your room is exactly the same as it was. You’ll have to shake the sheets and dust a bit,” he warned, and started limping to the room.

“I’ve missed you too, John,” Sherlock suddenly blurted out, because John has obviously missed him and he’s missed John. He shouldn’t have blurted it out, though, and immediately scolded himself.

John stills completely, and the detective is entirely positive that he hears a soft whimper escape from the doctor’s mouth. The shorter man raises his fist to his mouth and it curiously looks as though he’s trying to stop himself from crying. “Yeah,” he whispers before walking to his room, and Sherlock is torn between being hurt at the fact that John may have said that in a sarcastic manner or being hurt at the fact that John is obviously very pained over everything that’s gone on in the short span of about fifteen minutes.

Honestly, he doesn’t know why the second one could even be happening. He thought John would be happy.  

He’s confused as he walks into his room five minutes after John’s limped to his, and he nearly chokes from the dust when he shakes the sheets. True to his word as ever, the dust is thick and unrelenting, and Sherlock can see that the only parts of his room that were dusted were the countertops of his furniture. Most likely Mrs. Hudson’s doing, then. Taking his suit jacket and button down shirt off, and chucking the latter in the corner of the room because it’s useless now, he notices he’s standing in front of his mirror.

Even streaked and dirty, the mirror shows the detective his changed body. His pale torso is littered with the scars from those three years spent destroying Moriarty’s web, and he knows his back looks the same way. This is the first time he is able to physically see the damage that the three years had on him as well.

He’s grown thinner—it wasn’t as though Mycroft could send him food packages, so the food he had on an even rarer basis was either stolen or bad. Raising his hands, he observes them. They’re covered in the blood of the many criminals’ lives he had to take, in order to be here, in his room, back at 221 B. Baker Street. He had given up so much to come back to this life, that included the doctor and the inspector, the landlady and the mortician. His life. He’d given up his life for three years.

He has the scars to show it. _And so does John,_ he thinks as he slides his pajamas on and climbs into bed, keeping his phone beside him and putting his hands to his chin.

After a few attempts to try and imagine what John has gone through, he dismisses the task.

Ultimately, he comes to the conclusion that he wants to tell John about the confrontation between him and James on the rooftop. What he wants, though, doesn’t matter, not now. Even someone as emotionally stunted as he is, Sherlock knows that John deserves more boundaries than before.

He simply believes that John should know. He feels as though the doctor is owed that.

The thought _‘and much more’_ threatens to come to his mind, but Sherlock dismisses it because it is holding the terrible risk of confusing Sherlock further because of the “much more” part.

It confuses him anyways, and as he sees the sun come up and break over the horizon many hours later, he has only made more problems for himself to decipher, many of them considering the doctor in the room next to his.

And his emotions, much to his surprise and dismay.

~*~

 

It is one week later when Sherlock realized that he feels something akin to love for John Hamish Watson.

Such a curious feeling it is, the tightening in his chest that’s been happening sporadically since he’s returned. It has always been there, granted, but on their first case together since his fall, it’s quite different.

John had refused to go on a case with him twice before, and it was only that Sherlock promised him dinner and no experiments for a week that he went. As they chased the suspect and caught him, the adrenaline was still surging through the detective when he found the urge to push John up against the red brick of the alleyway and connect their lips.

It was all so wonderfully familiar—the blind trust that he wouldn’t get hurt, the fact that John had gotten rid of his limp as soon as they started running, the fact that it was a cab they chased. It was, however, ironically mirrored—the killer was the passenger, rather than the driver. Sherlock had gotten rid of John’s limp again, but only because he had brought it back. There hadn’t been any words said between them as they walked through the alleyway back to 221 B. Baker Street.

Sherlock realized that he had missed this, being _with_ John. Chasing people through alleyways, seeing the man walk in at promptly six thirty in the morning to make a cuppa for the both of them, seeing his reaction to the experiments in the kitchen and the new set of heads in the fridge. He’s missed _John._

The urge to kiss him is a huge shock to the detective. It is a shock, but not an unwelcome realization.

Of course, he had jumped to save his life. He couldn’t have John die. Maybe that, compared with the fact that he had indeed read what love consisted of—he knew what the textbook version of love was—was what got him to realize that he may, in fact, love John Watson.

The definition of love is that it is most importantly a noun. It is a “profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.” Yes, he feels that way about John. It is “personal attachment,” and “sexual desire.” Those are both yesses too, considering John. It is the “affectionate concern for the well-being of others.” Yes. A thousand times yes. He would die to save John. He did die to save John. He’d do it again.

 _It’s settled then,_ Sherlock thinks as they walk up the stairs into the flat.

He’s in love with John Watson.

 

~*~

 

The next few days become horrifically unbearable. Sherlock wants to be with John every living minute, and because he can’t be, he gets angry. He wants to feel the shorter body against his, wants to wind his arms around John’s waist and hold him close. He wants to lay in bed with John and have his head on his chest, for a reason other than easing the man through tears. He’d then cup his jaw and lead him up for a kiss, and just revel in being close, but he can’t. He wants to kiss John, _dammit,_ in the morning and at night and whenever he feels like it, because he loves him. He wants to feel the slide of their lips and he wants to catalog each of those reactions and commit them to memory, and to store them in the room of his mind labeled ‘John.’ He wants all of the ‘touchy-feely’ things with John that he’s never wanted with anyone else, and the feelings are so completely foreign to him that he doesn’t know what to do. Whenever he leaves his Mind Palace, his attempt to make something out of these feelings has once again been in vain, and his feelings are mangled and confusing and he _hates_ it more than anything in the world. This is precisely why he didn’t have them when he ‘should’ have had them. They were stupid. They make him feel at a loss.

John, however—John is worth it, and he’s worth all of the puzzling feelings, and that’s something Sherlock didn’t have during his younger days. He didn’t have someone who was worth the confusion, and now that he does he doesn’t know what to do with it.

He _has_ to do something, though.

He tries to do little things, but they all backfire on him.

Going to the store is the first. He gets the milk for the first time, but then gets home to throw the bottle of milk away only to see that John obviously prefers skimmed. He had gotten whole.

The second is getting dinner. Sherlock goes to make himself alive once again to London and the rest of the world, unfortunately resulting in an entire day spent with his brother and his superiors. On the way home, he decided to get John takeout from the Chinese restaurant. Of course he hadn’t forgotten what his favorite is: Spicy Kung Pao Chicken with Chicken Fried Rice and Dumplings. Being rather proud of himself and walking in with the bag, he sees John sitting in his chair, already eating dinner. The doctor doesn’t see Sherlock slide into the kitchen and put the bag in the refrigerator, defeated. The night goes like each one has been going since he’s returned: silent.

After the third, he finally gives up. It’s been three months since he’s returned, and he gets John an apple pie, hot from the bakery only to come home to an empty flat and text Mycroft for his location only to get a reply reading that for an observant man he really doesn’t see. It’s the anniversary of his death, and John is at the cemetery, looking and talking to a faulty gravestone that indicates Sherlock’s body is six feet below it.

Sherlock hides in his room and doesn’t come out for eight hours, curled up in his bed.

He’s hopeless, he really is.

Perhaps the greatest feeling of hurt is that John doesn’t check to see how he’s doing.

The doctor still hasn’t asked _why_ he left _._

It’s immensely troubling.

 

~*~

 

Slowly, things are starting to go back to normal. John begins talking to him again, begins blogging about something other than the fact that the detective is alive, left only with the knowledge that the rubber ball method was used and that there were blood packets involved. He doesn’t tell the rest of the world that he’s the one who didn’t ask for any more details.

He still hasn’t asked for details as to _why_ , and Sherlock’s so far down the well of confusion that he doesn’t bother trying to make his way up anymore.

Talking to Lestrade doesn’t help. The detective inspector punched him too, and was angry at him for two weeks before letting him in on a case. What he has to say about John doesn’t make things any easier.  

”He’s been in love with you for years, Sherlock. Even you should see that.”

“Does he still love me?” Sherlock finds himself asking back, and the look on Lestrade’s face is pained and tight, and that makes another twinge of pain happen in his chest. So many of those have been happening it’s insane. He still wants to kiss John whenever he sees him, and it’s gotten so bad that he’s actually been _aroused_ by the man. An erection of his own had sprouted twice before he found himself at Lestrade’s doorstep.

“You’ll have to find that out for yourself,” he murmured.

Sherlock leaves his flat soon after. What Greg has told him only confused him further.

 

~*~

 

It happens one day when they desperately need to look like they’re _not_ following a suspect through the alleyways. They’ve found the man, the man who has indeed killed five people, and he is walking down the cobbled way towards them. They need to do something, now, as to push all thoughts that he’s being followed out of his head. His feelings are bubbling over, and he can’t stop himself from the option that places itself first in line to choose. It’s been five months, five months of trying to hold himself back and now, he has an excuse.

So Sherlock cups John’s jaw, tilts his head down, and connects their lips passionately. John completely stills before kissing back, realizing Sherlock’s plan and going along with it to save his life. Knowing full well that the man was cured of his suspicions and was walking toward certain imprisonment with Lestrade at the end of the block, John stills his lips, but the detective presses back insistently, the feeling of John reciprocating—albeit the fact that it was to save their skins—sending his emotions into overdrive.

“Sher-“ John tries to cut in after the detective pulls back for breath, but Sherlock connects their lips once again, and has the doctor’s face in a strong but gentle grip; he won’t be getting away anytime soon.

Sherlock vaguely registers John’s hands on his chest, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t stop. Insistent kisses get pressed to John’s lips once more, and then the detective makes the fatal mistake of trying to kiss a trail down John’s neck before John finally gets the leverage he needs and shoves him off with a force that makes the lanky man stumble back violently.

He’s shocked. John loves him. Lestrade said so. He said that John loved him. That means that he’s supposed to be kissing him back.

He tries to kiss John again, and is stopped by hands on his chest. “Sherlock, what the /fuck/ are you doing?” he shrieks, and Sherlock winces because the words both hurt him internally and pierce at his ears.

“I-I’m kissing you,” he murmurs stupidly. John lets out a bark of a laugh, and it’s cold and unrelenting. Sherlock doesn’t like it.

“Of course you were bloody kissing me,” the doctor yells, and Sherlock knows that he’s not wanted close, so he stays where he is and John lowers his hands, balling them into fists at his side. “ _WHY_ were you kissing me?”

Why. There it is. For the first time since he’s returned, John is questioning his personal actions.

“Don’t you love me?” Sherlock asks, and his voice is small and pathetic and vulnerable and he _hates_ it because it’s so disgustingly unbecoming.

John stills, and his eyes become wide and vulnerable and his hands unfurl and his shoulders slump and it’s a glorious _yes_ to Sherlock, so he steps closer and plants his hand flat on the brick, on either side of John’s head. He stooped over to stare into John’s eyes, and goes in for another kiss before the doctor does something that hurts even more—he turns away, and Sherlock’s lips brush his cheek.

“I thought you loved me,” he whispered again, and this time a whimper escapes John as he hides his head away in his shoulder and starts shaking. He still hasn’t said anything, but Sherlock knows something has changed in that answer, and he doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like it _at all,_ but he needs to ask what has changed, and _why,_ something John has refrained from asking for five months.

The cold is making his breath is come in white huffs and it’s mixing with John’s breath, and Sherlock can’t think of a greater sensation, except that he’s hurting right now, because he’s vulnerable and loving and nothing like his real self, but he’s wanted to do this so long, and there’s so many things he needs to say and asking John why he doesn’t love him anymore is NOT one of the things he wants to ask or do in this situation.

He presses his nose to John’s cheek and John can’t shy away any more so he stays there. “John?” he asks in a heartbroken little voice. “What changed, John?” His heart is breaking as he talks and he doesn’t know how to stop it. There’s no answer, but he can feel the doctor tensing up.

“John, what’s changed?” he asks again, voice shaky, and that’s precisely when he snaps.

“You LEFT!” John shouts, and Sherlock flinches back like he’s been slapped in the face, and his heart feels like it’s been stomped on and left to put itself back together. “You _left_ me for three fucking years! Three FUCKING years, I was alone. I had to fend for myself, I had to get through life without you, when you were the first thing I came to after the war. You left, to go have a three year vacation, to see how it would affect me, no doubt. Oh, look at me, John Watson, the perfect test subject for faking your death and recording the results. I should have expected something like that, after the whole incident with the Hound, you know? You would just fake your death and then come back and see how it affected vulnerable old me, who was stupid enough to fall in fucking love with you during the time we had together, who was stupid enough to care so much as to miss you when you were gone. Well you got what you wanted, right? You got your data. I missed you. I missed the fuck out of you. I visited your damn grave everyday, sent you flowers. See? Do you see your living experiment? I cared. So STOP trying to get a reaction from me, because you don’t care, and three years taught me that. Don’t try and act like you care that I love you, because you know you DON’T!” he screams, and Sherlock is _finished._

The words have been said fast, and John hasn’t taken a single breath throughout his rant, and when he does take one it’s more of a gasp than anything, but Sherlock doesn’t bother to look into it any more.

He is _broken._ His head is hanging, and by all the powers in the world he can’t stop his lower lip from trembling as his arms shake while trying to hold himself up.

John really, honestly believes that he doesn’t care, that this was an experiment, and it is killing Sherlock. That’s why he didn’t ask, because he had assumed all of that. The detective has his answer now, but it’s far from what he wanted. Somewhere in this moment, the detective is cursing himself for not telling the doctor why he faked his death, but it doesn’t matter now.

“Sh-Sherlock,” he whispers, and John turns to him, trying to catch his gaze. The regret is clear in his voice but the blurred sight Sherlock is now experiencing doesn’t let him observe it. He wrenches himself away from John and pulls his coat collar up as he turns on his heel and quickly walks away, hyperaware of the fact that tears are streaming freely down his face as he walks through the streets, away from Lestrade and the cop cars and to the edge of a street he doesn’t see the name of.

He doesn’t hear John yell out his name, asking him to come back. The damage is done.

He hails a cab, and is blindly trusting as he gets in the black car and tells the cabbie the address that he wants to go to.

Wiping his tears away enough to text Mycroft, he sends him a message.

[You have control of the flat, turn on the heater. John will be going there within the next ten minutes. –SH]

He has to wipe the screen of his phone—it’s wet with his tears.

A minute later, he receives a reply. [Should I be worried, dear brother? –MH]

[Sod off, and /do what I say/. –SH]

Sherlock shoves his phone in his pocket and doesn’t look at it again, not really seeing the city of London whizz by as the cab moves. He has to keep wiping one of his hands across his cheekbones.

Sherlock realizes they’ve come to a stop too late, and the cabbie is saying something that the detective knows has to do with being there already.

Getting out of the cab and throwing an excessive amount of bills to the cabbie, he steps out and makes his way to the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

**Author's Note:**

> Cliffhangers for the win, yes? I hope you all liked the cliffhanger, and that all of your imaginations run WILD, as I won't post the second part for probably another couple weeks. 
> 
> I also chose not to mention Mary Morstan, straying away from the canon because I feel that her death would affect John far too much for the tone of this story to be how it is. 
> 
> I gifted this to Reapersun because she makes such a gorgeous contribution to the Sherlock Fandom with her beautiful drawings that bring all of our visions to life.
> 
> I'd also like to thank those who BETA'd for me, and in the next chapter I'll post links of who those beautiful people are, because I'm not quite done with them yet! 
> 
> I hope that you all love the fic, and thank you so much for reading!!
> 
> -deduction019


End file.
